


Past the state line with the radio glowing bright

by dysintegration (robokittens)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Roadtrips, handjobs, terrible life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/dysintegration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete Wentz is a train wreck. Anyone who's seen him in a relationship knows it. He's the only guy Joe knows who's managed to fall in love with one-night-stands, actual song-lyric-writing, chick-flick-watching, calling-other-girls-at-three-AM love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past the state line with the radio glowing bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sobrellevar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sobrellevar).



"The thing is —" Pete says, and then they're silent for a while.

 

*

 

Pete Wentz is a train wreck. Anyone who's seen him in a relationship knows it. He's the only guy Joe knows who's managed to fall in love with one-night-stands, actual song-lyric-writing, chick-flick-watching, calling-other-girls-at-three-AM love.

But then, Joe's never fallen in love like that, either.

 

*

 

This one time, somewhere in Iowa, Joe jacks Pete off against the side of the van.

It's before the accident, before they made it, back when Joe was still _in a band_ with _Pete Wentz_ , rather than in a band with Pete. Joe's driving somewhere through fucking Iowa at like three AM, Andy and Patrick asleep in the back and Pete bleary-eyed in the passenger seat, insisting that no, no, he can stay up and keep Joe company, he can —

And then Pete's tugging on his sleeve, which nearly makes Joe drive off the side of the road (but he doesn't, not this time), and he's saying something about a rest stop, and he's had to pee for hours.

"Yeah," Joe says, and he's surprised at how thin his own voice sounds. "I saw the sign." And there's a sign again, and he follows the turn-off, and they're at a rest stop off Interstate 80, and Pete tumbles out of the car. Joe follows, a moment later.

When Pete comes out of the bathroom, Joe's kicking at the vending machine, trying to see if it's as old and broke-down as it looks. Nothing happens, so he shoves in some quarters and gets a bag of stale Twizzlers for his trouble.

"What do they taste like?" Pete asks, which is a nonsensical, Pete sort of thing to ask.

Joe shrugs, holds the bag out to Pete wordlessly. Pete takes it, and starts walking back toward the van. Joe follows, a moment later.

He's not sure, later, why he ended up on the passenger side of the van; maybe he was going to try and make Pete drive, fight him for shotgun, but Pete tired is an even worse driver than Pete _ever_ , so that doesn't make sense. But he's there, and Pete is gnawing hard on a bite of Twizzler as he pulls Joe flush up against him, pressed against the passenger door. Before Joe can even protest, Pete grins, florescent light reflecting off his teeth. The effect is ruined, somewhat, by the sticky bits of red clinging to his canines.

"Joe," Pete says, like it's something obvious, and pulls Joe tighter up against him. He can feel Pete's heartbeat, slow and stuttering. " _Joe_ ," he says again, insistent, and shoves a hand between them. It rests for a moment on Joe's sternum and then drags downward, and it's not really enough pressure to reach through Joe's hoodie but he feels it all the same. And then, "We're in _Iowa_."

"Yeah," he says, "okay," oddly agreeable, because they're in _Iowa_ , why not, and this is Pete Wentz. He unzips Pete's jeans, button already unfastened like Pete had this planned out, or like he just hadn't bothered faced with five more hours sitting in a car seat. He slips his hand inside and Pete's cock jumps beneath his fingers, and he only has a moment to stop and think that they should stop at a laundromat, _none_ of them have clean underwear anymore, and then Pete's sinking teeth into his shoulder.

 

*

 

Sometimes, Andy tells Patrick and Joe stories about life in Milwaukee. Life in the hardcore scene. Playing the part of the wise old man. Patrick's always intrigued, leaning over diner tables and getting his elbow in Joe's ketchup.

One day Andy tells a story about The One Girl — he says it like that, laughing, with capital letters — The One Girl he was ever in a band with, because they might have been straightedge vegan anarchists, but they weren't letting a _girl_ into their band.

"And the thing is," Andy says, still laughing, "we were _right_. Because then ... _some dumb fuck_ in the band _sleeps_ with her, and we break up three days later."

Patrick chokes on his 7-Up. When Joe falls back into the booth, laughing, he catches the look on Pete's face. Pete looks away.

"I really liked that band," Pete says, quietly. "It — you guys were really good."

Joe looks down at his fries, and if Andy gives Pete a look, he doesn't see it.

 

*

 

"No," Joe says. "I get it."

And he does, mostly.

 

*

 

It's official Call Your Girlfriend Day, which happens every once and a while when they're on tour and Pete's acting all innocent, like he didn't _know_ that Ohio is pretty fucking big and Cleveland and Cincinnati are at opposite ends of the state. One at a time, they get the whole back of the van to themselves, switching off driving and the other two smushed into the passenger seat.

Andy's focused on the road ahead like they're driving through a hurricane, not the light drizzle that's been tapping against their windows all day, consistent and insistent but not on-beat, and Patrick's trying to take up as little room as possible, sitting in cupholders rather than in Joe's lap. Which is considerate of him, Joe guesses, but it's not like he minds; it's not like they're not all living on top of each other anyway. Not like they're not something beyond brothers.

Patrick's spent the last ten minutes fiddling with the radio, and now he's got something almost passable, probably a college station. If Joe listens close, he can almost make out "All Apologies" under layers of static. And he's listening close, they all are, trying not to hear Pete.

He should start a conversation, _someone_ should, just to keep the silence from spreading, but it's Pete's voice that rises above Kurt's first. "It's not _like_ that. No, it's —" and his tone softens, but it's too late; everyone's listening. "You know it's not like that. Baby, you know I lo—"

The dull thump, Joe knows that's a cell phone slamming into the floor of the van through layers of sleeping bags and dirty clothes.

The radio's dissolved into static again, and Patrick finally moves all the way out of Joe's space, climbing over the middle and into the back. Joe cranes his neck, watching, as Patrick lays a hand on Pete's knee, as Pete's fingers wrap around the back of Patrick's neck and pull him close, resting his head against Patrick's chest.

 

*

 

The show is amazing, the best one they've played yet, and it's in the middle of Indiana. The kids there, all twenty-five, maybe thirty of them, if Fall Out Boy makes it big some day, they'll remember this _forever_.

Afterward Pete pulls Joe close, his face flushed and eyes blazing, and presses his lips to the corner of Joe's mouth. Joe chokes out Pete's name, and Pete takes the opportunity to slide his tongue along Joe's bottom lip, smooth and hot with his breath on Joe's face, and Joe pulls away.

He turns his back on Pete, and makes it a few steps before slumping against the cinderblock wall.

 

*

 

"Don't sleep with Pete," Andy says, taking a seat next to Joe.

"Um," Joe says, and stares at his beer bottle. Possibly he's had too much to drink, which isn't hard to do at these parties, since he's like the only one drinking; fucking Pete and fucking Andy and their fucking straightedge friends. "Okay," he says, finally.

"It's just a bad idea." He gestures emphatically with his Mountain Dew, and after a moment, Joe realizes he's gesturing at Pete. Pete, a vague shape in the darkness, but one Joe can recognize easily. Joe can always spot Pete, even in crowds; even when he's had too much to drink and the sun's long since set, leaving the grass cold and wet-feeling beneath him and the music seeming louder than it is, even when Pete's wrapped himself around someone Joe doesn't know. From across the lawn, Joe can even hear Pete's laughter.

"Wasn't going to," he says. Not _I'm straight_ , and not _Pete's my friend_ , and not _Are he and Patrick — do you know if —?_

Andy smiles. "Good." He ruffles Joe's hair.

 

*

Pete Wentz is a train wreck. Everyone knows it.

 

*

 

It's probably three AM by the time Joe stumbles into conciousness, lured up against his will by the feeling of someone straddling him and a soft but insistent pressure on his chest. He opens his eyes, slits, and can just make out the form of Pete balanced over him, tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration, with the light streaming in through the windshield.

"What are you doing?" Joe asks, voice hoarse, and then, "is that a Sharpie?" He cranes his neck to see his new tattoo, but it's a bad angle.

"Yeah." Pete grins at him, his smile clearer than anything else in the moonlight. "Don't worry, I didn't do your face. Go back to sleep."

"'Kay," Joe murmurs, because it's easier, sometimes, just to trust Pete.

In the morning, Patrick has a Dali moustache, and Joe has a heart carefully drawn on his ribcage, framing the letters _PLKW3_.

 

*

 

But then, Joe's never fallen in love like that, either.


End file.
